“It may be desirable enough, but is it right?”
“Right,” repeated her father, with exasperation. “How could it be otherwise than right to marry a man of Marshire's position, means, stamp, and general fitness? You would be in possession of a station where your interest would be as independent as your spirit. Nothing could have been more brilliant, or flattering, or more cordial than his offer. I argue against my natural selfishness for your welfare. I don't wish to part with you, but I must consider your future.”
He spoke with energy, and Sara knew, from the length and substance of the speech, that the subject had been for some time very near his heart. She resolved, on the instant, not to fail him; but as she foresaw his crowning satisfaction, she permitted herself the luxury of prolonging his suspense.
“I do not love him,” said she.
“In marriage one does not require an unconquerable love but an invincible sympathy.”
“An invincible sympathy!” she exclaimed. “I have had that for certain friends—for one or two, at any rate. For Robert Orange, as an example.”
“That man again? Why do you dwell upon him?”
“He is interesting, he has force, and, as for origin, do people ever repeat pleasant facts about a neighbour's pedigree? I believe that his family is every bit as good as ours. His second name is de Hausée. No one can pretend that we are even so good as a genuine de Hausée. We may make ourselves ridiculous!”
“Let me entreat you to guard against these inequalities in your character. To-day I could even accuse you of levity. Dearest Sara, Marshire is hardly the man to be kept waiting for his reply.”
“I am not well,” said Sara, almost in tears. “There are hours when I would not give my especial blessings for any other earthly happiness, and then, a moment after, the things which pleased me most become vexations, all but intolerable!”